I once met a man,
Ensconced deep in the park,
Reclined in a flowerbed,
Giving sermons to daffodils and oaks,
Forlorn he was,
And for good cause,
He was a man of a botanical nature,
A gentleman of thistles,
Humble in his manner,
Lilac-maned and garbed in thorns,
Within lay a pure heart,
But without wore a painful raiment,
You see,
He could not embrace his love,
He had never held her hand,
His thistles would only sting her,
Marring her snowy skin,
Drawing blood against his will.
Mankind is but an acorn,
A humble spore,
Still at the beginning of its life,
Only just beginning to thrive,
Still a long way to go,
Only dreaming of one day being a redwood,
The growth spurts come thick and fast,
Microscopic to industrial to digital,
Evolution to innovation to augmentation,
Sometimes strangling other life,
The years plod on,
And the seed is preparing to split,
Not all trees reach their apex,
It’s a dog-eat-dog world,
Mans upsurge has been anathema to many,
Practicing allelopathy through progress,
Trees often blot out the sun for others,
And hominal endeavours are a choking canopy,
I do wonder,
When the time comes,
Will humanity sprout as an oak,
Or burst into a parasitic wasp?
Wandering bewildered in a lawn maze,
I found this place,
By mistake or chance,
This verdant museum,
This garden of secrets,
Its emerald prizes did not come free,
The thorns acted an entry toll upon my arms,
But oh was it worth it,
Almost did I prostrate myself,
My eyes did bathe in supernal botany,
A wonderland without a red queen,
Trees holding up the firmament,
Flowers abound of every persuasion,
Little cardinals splaying to their solar deity,
The pristine lawn a parade ground of green,
Drilled by uniformed peacock life guards,
I could remain here forever,
Yet such divinity can only exist in folklore,
So I wrench open my eyes.
It’s finally supper time,
Our nightly ritual,
The victims are already at the trough,
But I’m missing a vital component,
The broth is incomplete,
This little mandrake,
It’s just the ticket,
This earthy fruit of foulness,
It will sent them careening into fantasy,
A final dream for the little souls,
Hallucinogens to cleanse the pallette,
Before the poison does its deed,
This heathenry,
It shall be akin to sorcery,
Into the soup you go,
Keep it quiet now,
My little botanical homunculus,
Dont reveal yourself to them,
You may appear infantile,
A parody of a child,
But you’re a monster tonight.
I sit here in this bountiful garden,
Passing the summer hours,
Gazing over the various arbors,
That stand guard at the perimeter,
In their viridian dress coats,
They are true fountains of life,
Green with envy,
At our freedom,
Though we should be jealous,
Of their eternal dignity,
The leaves,
They splay out in the sun,
Like angels wings,
With a more tangible divinity,
Laying bare mother nature’s selflessness,
The autumnal browns arrive,
The leaves succumb,
A vision of entropy,
But cast a blanket of rejuvenation,
For the thirsty earth,
The winds twist through the branches,
Imparting a sacred message,
For all of humanity,
Be as the leaves,
Love your earth.
WorldofHarley 